


Scars and The Record of Their Beginnings

by BlackDog9314



Series: Rhapsodic 'Verse Time-Stamps [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, POV Dean Winchester, Physical Abuse, Rhapsodic 'verse, time-stamp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 20:22:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3742420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackDog9314/pseuds/BlackDog9314
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Charlie have a chat in an empty painting studio.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars and The Record of Their Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> This time-stamp takes place soon after Charlie and Castiel attend the first Iota fraternity party together.  
> To read the main work these one shots are written to accompany, click [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2660231/chapters/5945528).

Dean studied the photograph in his left hand, held aloft before him as a reference. The scar depicted on the glossy paper (courtesy of university resources) was the gash on his right knee. It wasn't a very old scar, just old enough that it was clear it'd be making a home on the surface of his kneecap for years to come.

The painting for which the photograph was a reference was nearing completion, resting on the rung of an easel a few feet in front of Dean. Though he couldn't say he was all that happy with the piece itself or the concept he was defining, he was almost thankful his scars had somehow proven themselves useful.

 _Useful's a relative term_ , Dean thought.

At that moment Charlie entered the studio; her red hair was stark and bright against the white of the scuffed floors and the fluorescent lighting.

Dean smiled at her as she walked toward him, holding his breath as she wrapped him in a hug. Her arms banded around his body made the new bruises on his side and the raw, open welts between his shoulder blades throb.

Dean felt an uncomfortable mixture of relief and gloom when his friend pulled away. Charlie always smelled sweet, her hair falling over his shoulders like silken curtains when she hugged him.

Dean ached at the softness with which she touched him sometimes.

“How's it goin', man?” Charlie asked, gesturing to Dean's painting.

Dean shook his head and laughed softly. “It's goin'. Almost done with it.”

“Is Cas done with his?” Charlie pointed to the little circular canvas fastened to the easel adjacent to Dean's. Castiel's painting was covered with soft, warm colors and what looked to be runes.

“Yeah, he finished yesterday.”

“Cool. He's funny, man. I took him with me to Iota this weekend,” Charlie said.

“What? Huh. He's kind of a weird little guy.”

Charlie cocked an eyebrow. “I like him just fine, Winchester.”

Dean shrugged and laughed. “He seems alright. He has good ideas, I'll give him that.”

Charlie rolled her eyes and laughed, too. “He's plenty of fun while filled with Jungle Juice.”

Dean snorted.

“I gotta get to work on my demise—oh, I'm sorry, I meant lipstick painting. You know where I'll be if you need me.” Charlie stuck her tongue out at him and walked the few yards across the studio to her space, where she took her seat and began to unscrew her palette cups and her silicoil.

Dean excused himself to the men's room not long after. Once inside he locked the door behind him and stripped off his t-shirt, turning so his back and most of his right side faced the mirror and craned his neck in an effort to look at the wounds there as best as he could.

The welts striping his back didn't look as though they were bleeding again, to his relief, though the bruising was as bad as he'd figured.

Dean shuddered as his fingertips grazed the scabbed marks, seeing clearly there the shape of his father's rings from the night before.

He pulled his shirt back on after gingerly dabbing a piece of damp paper towel over the welts, the square of paper going into the bathroom trashcan stained with flecks of dried blood.

When Dean walked back into the studio and resumed his work, he couldn't help but wonder what kinds of Castiel things wrote about.

_Maybe he writes stories with happy endings._

 


End file.
